


spring, after

by tenderized



Series: and i started to become greedy [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining, briefly mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25537435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderized/pseuds/tenderized
Summary: Osamu thinks about what he wants.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Series: and i started to become greedy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941619
Comments: 10
Kudos: 128
Collections: SunaOsa





	spring, after

It's a month before graduation.

Suna shifts to scratch briefly at his chin before reaching up to flip the page of his graphic novel, and the movement has his hair tickling Osamu’s legs.

Osamu swallows and focuses on not moving so as not to disturb the other. It’s a precarious position, he thinks, to have Suna’s head on his lap, and he tries very hard not to breathe too obviously. If he dwells on it too long, Suna might disappear like a dream in the morning (he’s mercurial like that), and so Osamu does his best not to overthink. Act like he cares and Suna might spook. Better to think about other easier tasks, like, like…

Somewhere on the table, his job application lies, long forgotten.

A rare warm day, the distant sparkling of the wind chimes can be heard outside, and the sunlight streaming in through the window lights up the dust motes floating lazily like golden sand. A triangle of the beam falls on Suna’s face, highlighting his dark hair to umber, and his eyelashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. He huffs quietly in displeasure and moves again, using the book to shade his face from the sun.

Osamu brings his hand to the other’s head and threads his fingers through the thick hair, brushing strands away from Suna’s forehead. 

Suna flicks his eyes up momentarily, surprised, and his gaze is unreadable.

“Sorry,” Osamu says, caught hand in the cookie jar. He stops.

The corners of Suna’s mouth lift slightly, and he goes back to reading, uninterested again.

Osamu begins to lift his hand away, but Suna nudges his head against his stomach, insistent, and hesitantly, Osamu begins combing through the other’s hair again. Suna keeps his eyes trained on the book and flips to the next page.

Osamu snorts. “So needy.”

“Says you,” Suna replies, making Osamu frown. He tugs on Suna’s hair then, childish, and Suna hisses. Without looking, he slaps Osamu’s hand away from his hair, then a few moments later, reaches back to lay it on his own head again gently when Osamu doesn’t do it himself.

Almost an hour later, Osamu’s resigned himself to pulling another all-nighter to finish his application because at this rate, it’s honestly more productive to accept he’s not going to get anything done like this.

“Suna,” he tries, testing the name in his mouth and feeling its weight on his tongue.

The younger is chewing on his bottom lip, worrying it with his teeth, attention still on that stupid manga. He hums, distracted.

“Suna,” he says again, and cups the other’s face with his hand. Finally, Suna sets the comic down on the carpet beside him and meets his gaze. 

Osamu thumbs at the poutiness of Suna’s bottom lip, marvels at the slight wet _pop_ sound it makes as it slips from the pad of his finger. Then, he bends down to catch the other’s lips with his own in a kiss, sweet and close-lipped.

They’ve done this before, enough times that Suna’s not caught off-guard and reciprocates eagerly. Yet, Osamu’s heart pounds like it did the first time he’d pulled the other aside, and dizzy, he straightens, neck aching, when Suna opens his mouth to deepen the kiss.

Suna flips onto his stomach, and his fingers, long and callused, start to crawl up under Osamu’s shorts, fumble at the skin there.

When Osamu puts his hands on the other’s, stopping him, he looks up, confused.

“No?” Even the tilt of his head is cute, and Osamu despairs.

“Um,” Osamu struggles to make up an excuse and comes up empty. “I need to finish applying for this thing because it’s due end of this week?”

Suna looks at him strangely and withdraws. “Then what’d you kiss me for?”

And there it is. Although Osamu had expected the question, even indistinct as the worry is, it actually kind of stings. Because, yes, they kiss, and although it’s relatively new, since Suna’s birthday about a month ago, that’s not the problem. Rather, it’s because there’s a difference between kissing just because you like someone and kissing as a precursor for something more.

Osamu’s got himself stuck with the latter, some wordless agreement to fool around together, relationship still somehow frozen at the friendship stage.

“Wonder why,” he says, vague, thoughts far away. Two months until April.

Suna narrows his eyes at him, searching, and leans back on his forearms, shoulders flexing under his thin white tee.

“Wonder why,” Suna repeats, and it’s not a question. Osamu swallows, eyes tracing the limber lines of the younger’s body. His hair is getting longer, unruly, and Osamu leans forward to tug on a strand.

“Ya need a haircut, Suna,” he says.

“And you need to re-dye your hair,” the other replies, raising an eyebrow at the dark roots peeking from the top of his head. “Becoming a pudding head. Taking you are what you eat a little too seriously.”

“Guess that’s why you’re such a dick then, huh?”

Suna scowls and sticks his tongue out at him.

Osamu tucks the lock of hair behind Suna’s ear, fingers lingering.

“Wrong color for that, don’tcha think?” He pauses. “And I’m thinking of letting it grow out, chop off the dyed bits.”

Suna looks at him appraisingly, gaze steady. “It’ll look good.” Osamu flushes. “Professional.”

He looks away, then, unable to stand it. The sunlight’s shifted, filtering in russet gold over the carpet, not quite as bright as it was earlier, and it falls over Osamu’s feet, warming them. The soft ticking of the clock on his nightstand continues.

He breathes out.

“Hey, Suna,” he tries again.

“Hey, Osamu,” Suna parrots back.

“Hey, Suna.”

“Hey, Osamu.”

Suna’s sleepy, Osamu can tell, tell from the slight drooping of his eyelids, the lazy mellow tone of his voice. Sleepy even though it’s only late afternoon. Osamu’s so fond.

“Don’t freak out or anything, ‘kay?” His tone is nonchalant, and he picks nervously at the carpet, unraveling the threads.

“Well, when you say it like that, how could I possibly?” Suna drawls, but his eyes are serious, and they pin him down, butterfly to corkboard.

Osamu chews on the inside of his mouth, considering.

In one fluid movement, he shifts onto his knees, pushes Suna down by the shoulders, and Suna tilts backwards, eyes widening. His foot knocks against the table, sending papers up in a cascade, suspended in the air.

Suna lands on the carpet, breath coming out in a soft puff, and Osamu leans over him, nose to nose. Suna’s eyes flicker to his mouth and then back up again, ears burning red.

Suna licks his lips, a nervous habit.

“So, you want to stop this?” he asks, and it comes out faint. Osamu watches the sliver of pink tongue as it wets the other’s lips.

“Did I say that?” Osamu wonders, fascinated with the way Suna’s eyelashes flutter as the younger blinks up at him.

“Not in so many words, perhaps.” Suna brings his arms up to grip at Osamu’s biceps. “I dunno. Who’s to know what you’re thinking? So full of surprises.”

Osamu knows that Suna’s referencing that one fight he’d had with Atsumu, some time a few weeks ago, about his intentions to stop playing volleyball. He hadn’t told anyone other than the school counselor before he’d spilled to Atsumu, and then, well, then everyone else knew as well.

He still remembers the look in Suna’s eyes, not hurt really, but still, somewhat startled.

He leans in a little more. “Sorry I didn’t tell ya before 'Tsumu went and threw a fit.”

“It wasn’t my business.” _I don’t mind_ , he means, Osamu knows, and he knows it’s not a lie.

He closes the last couple of centimeters, presses his lips to the circle of Suna’s mouth, chaste and tasting of unscented chapstick, then separates.

“’S that weird?” he whispers. What is Suna willing to give him?

“The kissing?” Suna asks, and his brow is pinched together. He’s calculating, possible missteps, careful always, and doesn’t answer yet.

Osamu looks back, commits every single one of the other’s features to mind and remembers this moment.

_We don’t need things like memories._

“That I always want to kiss you. And that it’s you, specifically. Always,” he confesses. “Any of that.”

Suna’s gaze is unwavering, and Osamu breathes into his space. He smells like fresh laundry and dollar store shampoo and Osamu’s childhood bedroom.

Suna hooks his ankles around the backs of Osamu’s thighs, draws him in closer, closer. “So you want to be ex-clu-sive.” The word _exclusive_ sounds clipped in his mouth, consonants cut short around the vowels, and Osamu wants to press his mouth to his again, have Suna say it again and feel it in the back of his own throat. 

Three years in the grand scheme of life is nothing, Osamu knows, and in just a couple more months, they’ll be headed in different paths, Suna returning to Tokyo for college, and Osamu’s still not sure where he’ll be himself. 

_We don’t need things like memories._

Osamu lets gravity pull him down, lets his weight sink into the other and touches his forehead to Suna’s.

“Yeah. What do you think about it?”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter at [@atsusuna](https://www.twitter.com/atsusuna)


End file.
